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THE   LIGHTHOUSE

down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly
incessantly upon his brain; among scents, sounds;
voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; and lights passing,
and brooms tapping; and the wash and hush of
the sea, how a man had marched up and down and
stopped dead, upright, over them. Meanwhile,
he noticed, Cam dabbled her fingers in the water,
and stared at the shore and said nothing. No,
she won't give way, he thought; she's different,
he thought. Well, if Cam would not answer him,
he would not bother her, Mr. Ramsay decided,
feeling in his pocket for a book. But she would
answer him; she wished, passionately, to move
some obstacle that lay upon her tongue and to say,
Oh yes, Frisk. I'll call him Frisk. She wanted
even to say, Was that the dog that found its way
over the moor alone? But try as she might, she
could think of nothing to say like that, fierce
and loyal to the compact, yet passing on to her
father, unsuspected by James3 a private token
of the love she felt for him. For she thought,
dabbling her hand (and now Macalister's boy
had caught a mackerel, and it lay kicking on the
floor, with blood on its gills) for she thought,
looking at James who kept his eyes dispassionately
on the sail, or glanced now and then for a second
at the horizon, you're not exposed to it, to this
pressure and division of feeling, this extra-

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